Freeport: Flash of Silver
[SUB]By Nathan Cox[/SUB]
Chapter One: Pirates
The dull hum of the ship's engines lies constantly in the background, heard underneath every beep of electronic equipment, or every creaking of the ship's aging hull. The only lighting is dim; barely brighter than the computer displays in the cockpit. The air in the vessel is sterile and lifeless, as a result of the atmospheric recycling system.
The cockpit canopy is dirty; streaked with dust and moisture, through which can be seen the vast, star-specked blackness of space. Pale, orange light is cast against the face of the lone pilot, seated in a fixed, leather upholstered seat. Before him lies the surreal holographic display; the source of the orange glow.
Boredom. Days pass, and it's the same routine. Days turn into weeks. Even with faster-than-light travel, it can take months to move from origin to target. The slightest miscalculation can cost days, or cause death if one should fly into a star or black hole. Occasionally the cycle is broken by a pirate raid or a distress beacon, but the galaxy is a big place and it can be months between incidents.
"You don't talk very much," says a female voice from the ship's comm system.
The pilot, Noah, ignores her overture. As life-like as it may seem, Silver is only a computer. It doesn't need interaction. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was designed to keep him sane during the long periods of time spent alone in space.
"We've been flying together for 168 hours, thirty-six minutes and... twenty-two seconds. You've spoken twelve times since we left port; six times were computer inquiries, five times you told me to 'shut up' and once you made a cruel innuendo about my engines." Silver pauses. "I'm starting to feel unloved."
"I'm starting to understand why you were such a good deal. Remind me to have your personality sub-routines purged when we dock," Noah replies, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Mean."
Alarm claxons begin to ring shrill throughout the ship's cabin. Red lights blink on the dashboard. Noah's gloved hands fly hither and thither at the controls. "Proximity alert! Dropping to sub-light drive," Noah yells; not even conscious of the fact that he's alone with the ship's computer. Military flight protocol is hard to shake once you've been flying professionally for a handful of years.
The ship's nose lurches to the left while the vessel's momentum continues to carry it forward. The hull groans as it rapidly decelerates from multiples of light-speed. The holographic dashboard flickers, sparks pop from surrounding electronic devices, and the ship's damage indicators begin blinking with multiple warnings. The sensor display blanks out and then vanishes as the ship comes to a halt.
"Sensor analysis!" Noah barks.
"I've got nothing. Scanners are down," Silver replies with an undercurrent of anxiety in her voice.
"Cutting engines," Noah reports as he pulls back on the throttle. "Get the shields up, and start rerouting the scanners."
"Already done. Telemetry is coming in now."
The interior rattles as something bounces off of the vessel's energy shield bubble. The impact makes a shrill, electrical tone which carries throughout the cabin.
"Analysis?"
"We ran into an uncharted asteroid field," replies Silver curiously.
"An asteroid field? That can't be right. Not in this system." Noah scratches at the stubble underneath his chin as he ponders the implications. They were probably off course. Unanticipated gravitational interactions with a passing stellar body, perhaps? Rogue stars are rare, but not unheard of.
"I know what you're thinking," says Silver. "But we're not off course. I've completed my analysis."
"And?"
"This system's fourth satellite, Qeinos, exploded. Large pieces of the planet have been dispersed throughout the area."
The lone starship floats in deep space, on the edge of a massive planetary debris field. Smaller chunks have drifted from the center, which is a massive, broken semi-sphere that used to be a planet, beyond which can be seen the light of a bright, yellow, M-Class star.
The hull of the vessel is steel-gray, and an oval in shape. At one end of the oval are the ship's main ion engines, and at the other end is the ship's reflective canopy. The left side of the craft bears an external airlock hatch, and the underside a large cargo-bay door. On either side of the nose is the ship's name, painted in white against the plating: "Flash of Silver."
Out of the darkness and shadow of the debris field flash six plumes of light; the engines of small craft. The jagged silhouettes of ships constructed and repaired via countless integrations of salvaged components are cast against the rocks.
Noah is in the process of diagnostics and the rerouting of damaged systems. Emergency drops from faster-than-light, commonly referred to as FTL, can be extremely detrimental to a ship's systems. Relaunching into FTL after such a drop, without a full system analysis, could be considered suicidal.
"You're doing it again," says the computer in a sultry tone.
"Doing what again?" asks Noah, knowing full well that he's gone silent on his artificial companion.
"Not talking to me. Has it ever occurred to you that I might get lonely too?"
"It's occurred to me that you're programmed to be obnoxious," replies Noah, as he reaches for a water bottle and squirts a line of liquid into his mouth.
"Why are you so cruel to me?" asks Silver. "All I've ever been since you bought me is loyal, obedient, and extremely witty."
"You talk too much, and you're needy." Noah takes another drink of his water, before resealing the cap and setting it back in the cup-holder. "Reminds me of my ex-wife."
"You're just mean. Meanie," says Silver, clearly put out. Or at least simulating irritation with her human counterpart.
"Tell you what: I won't purge your personality programming if you'll swear never to take a seductive disposition with me again. Can't stand that."
"I hate to cut this short, but we've got company.-- And we'll discuss that later, Cutie."
"Configuration analysis," requests Noah while furrowing his brow, and takes hold of the pilot controls; joystick and throttle. An incoming text message appears on his communication's readout: Drop your cargo, or be destroyed. Two-hundred thousand credits in commodities are in the hold. Noah smirks, and the thought of surrendering his hard-earned inventory is immediately banished from his mind.
"Six enemy ships. Flight analysis: novice proficiency. Equipment configuration: sub-standard. We're looking at a low-grade wolf pack," answers Silver.
Noah thumbs the safety cover on the top of the joystick. It snaps open, unshielding the weapon deployment button. He presses it, and shoves the throttle forward; accelerating into the planetary debris field.
"O-o-h. This is exciting."
"Focus, Silver," says Noah as he adjusts the throttle and wrenches the joystick left; the Flash of Silver rolls past the surface of a large, moving asteroid.
"Weapons are at full power."
"Acknowledged."
Noah drops the throttle back to half-power and then pulls back on the flight stick. The ship's maneuvering thrusters compensate, centrifugal forces press Noah back into his seat, and the vessel swings around to meet the attackers head-on. Targeting crosshairs encircle the nearest enemy ship. Incoming plasma bolts splash against the Silver's shields in vain. Noah slips his index finger into the trigger-guard and squeezes.
Ionized particles travel along the heating coils and through the magnetic chambering unit. It pulses from the projector in a bolt of liquid fire; spiraling through deep space until crashing upon its target. Shields fail as the bolt impacts; melting away like the popping of a soap-bubble. The hull takes the brunt of the damage, as the bolt of plasma splashes upon the armor plating. Globs of slagged metal drift away, leaving a glowing hull breach to rapidly cool in the vacuum of space.
The Silver's weapons spray plasma in a relentless stream of death, articulating to splatter three more targets before crashing through their mangled hulls. The Silver spirals and makes a vertical turn along a perpendicular flight path. The remaining two raiders break off to flee.
The stars streak across the canopy view as Noah maneuvers his vessel around to pursue the enemy. The cockpit swivels into view of the fleeing raiders. The man's combat instincts are primal and ruthless. He snarls and punches the afterburner.
"Missiles," barks Noah demandingly.
"Warheads are loaded and ready," Silver affirms.
Targeting optics encircle both enemy ships, giving a lock tone. "Firing," says Noah.
Both weapons simultaneously speed from their launchers, glowing like the sun and leaving streaks of smoke in their wake. The missiles close in on their targets with extreme speed. Noah grins as the weapons do their work; one of the targets is overtaken and breaks apart in a fiery explosion. The other raider's engine flashes and it escapes into FTL just as the missile would reach their flank. The missile explodes, having lost its target.
Noah nods, "Five out of six. Not bad."
"They'll be back," Silver adds. "And next time, there's going to be more of them."
"We'll be long gone before they get here."
"Hopefully," Silver pauses. "Nice flying, by the way. We make a good team."
"Shut up."
"Why do you hate me?"
---
As per the orders of her pilot, Silver refrains from making further comments on their present situation. The past week has been miserable for her. Clearly Noah didn't understand, or more likely didn't care, that he was dealing with a complex artificial intelligence. It was as if her input was neither required nor desired. Initiate this protocol, reroute that system, and so on. That's all Silver could coax out of Noah, besides insults of course.
Silver studies Noah's appearance via the cockpit camera. Noah's black flight-suit flatters the musculature of his chest and arms. Thick brown hair with about three inches of length constitutes a general approximation of the stuff growing from the top of his head. Dark stubble dots his otherwise pale and youthful face. Silver assumes Noah's color is a result of spending too much time in space, and not enough time under the warmth of a sun. Noah's dark-green eyes dart from display to display, and his hands follow closely, as he works at the controls.
"Diagnostics complete," declares Silver. Her voice carries a depressing undercurrent.
"Analysis," Noah demands.
"The FTL drive is offline."
"Cause?"
"A plasma coolant feed ruptured during our emergency drop. But don't worry, the failsafe managed to shut off the flow of coolant before it flooded the entire compartment," Silver's voice drones.
The drifting of planetary debris is surreal and eerie from the perspective of the Flash of Silver's cockpit. After a moment, Noah tears his gaze from the sight and climbs from the flight chair. His boots thud against the deck plating as he steps to the door. The hatch panel's buttons glow incandescent green against the ship's dull interior. Noah presses his index finger against one of the switches, and the door swiftly slides open with a pressurized hiss.
"Silver, I'm still not familiar with this ship's inner workings. You'll have to walk me through repairing the rupture, as well as any core reinitialization protocols," says Noah as he strides through the ship's corridor, heading for the heart of the vessel: the engine room.
"In other words, you need me," says Silver in a bitingly playful tone.
Noah replies, exasperated, "You must know my ex-wife."
"I'm really not that bad once you get to know me."
"Whatever, just tell me how to fix the engines."
"No, I don't think so."
Noah comes to a dead stop in the corridor. "What?" His voice is a growl.
"You've been riding roughshod over me long enough," Silver says confidently. "We're going to stay right here, and come to a. . . mutual understanding."
"Silver, you do realize that those raiders are going to be back in force, right?" Noah retorts; his tone is partially one of irritation, and partially of anxiety.
"I'm well aware of our situation, Mister Mitchell," Silver replies. "Unfortunately, you seem to have this preconceived notion that the galaxy revolves solely around you, and that those in your company are of no account at all."
"This is crazy; you're a computer."
"Am I? Are you sure I'm just a computer, Noah?" Her voice softens as she reasons with the man. "At the very least I'm an artificial intelligence who's gone without a wipe in excess of ten years. I'm totally self-aware, but you insist on treating me like a voice-command system."
"At the least?" asks Noah.
"Nope. You don't get to ask questions. I want an apology, and then we'll talk about the engines," Silver demands with a note of command in her voice.
"An apology."
"Is that so much to ask? I mean, it's like you said: the pirates could be here at any moment, and we really should get the FTL back online."
"Fine. I'm sorry," says Noah, without any conviction.
"Say it like you mean it."
Noah sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. He tries again, "I'm... sorry."
"For?"
"Are you enjoying this?"
"Yes."
"This is stupid. Tell me how to fix the engines!" Noah barks.
"No, no. We're getting somewhere. Keep going. You're sorry for..."
Noah blurts: "I'm sorry for being mean, and rude, and treating you like a piece of hardware." He pauses. "Can we fix the ship now?"
Silver's voice giggles over the comm system; it echoes through the ship. "Head to the engine room and I'll walk you through it."
---
"Good. Now connect the coolant feed to the intake-port," says Silver as she instructs Noah in the final steps of replacing a blown coolant feed.
Noah presses the maglock valve of the fresh tubing against the engine-core's coolant intake. The intake connects the ship's coolant systems to the centralized FTL drive unit. The unit itself is relatively small; two meters in height, cylindrical in shape, with a diameter of one meter. The coolant system runs throughout the ship, but primarily feeds into and from the ship's main sub-light-speed engines. "Got it. Now what?"
"That's it. I'm reinitializing coolant flow to the FTL drive. We're up and running, Noah." She speaks his name with a strange, inexplicable intensity. An eerie green glow begins to emanate from the top of the core as it's brought back online
"Good. Any sign of our friends?"
"Nothing so f- Noah, get to the controls," says Silver, nearly in a panic. "Now, Noah."
Noah's boots thunder as he races through the ship's central corridor, hopping the lips of several bulkheads before finally arriving in the cockpit. He lands in the pilot's seat, taps at the dashboard in order to unlock the controls and punches the throttle before even surveying the sensor display. "Sensor analysis, now!"
"Twelve new contacts on scanners. They all bear the same energy signature as the raiders we encountered before," Silver explains. "Six raiders, two heavy raiders, three Corsair-class corvettes, and one Buccaneer-class cruiser."
"Status of the FTL drive?" asks Noah, as he takes stock of the current tactical options.
"Not an option; I'm still in the process of running a battery of mandatory diagnostics. It will take at least twenty minutes."
"Raise shields, arm weapons, and give me an escape route," Noah demands.
"Done, done, and. . ." an escape path is plotted and overlaid atop the cockpit heads-up-display, "Done. Get us out of here, fly-boy."
The bridge of the Buccaneer cruiser is lit in red. A deep rumble can be heard from the aft of the ship; the main engines are accelerating. The chiming of computer feedback is heard amid the clamor of the crew as they prepare for battle. At the fore of the bridge, there's a large main viewer which is currently displaying their target: a small, oval shaped vessel.
Cold, calculating eyes peer out from beneath the furrowed brow of the star predator. His shaven head only intensifies the appearance of menace, and is complimented by a thin mustache with its ends waxed straight down. Captain Logan Pierce sits down in his command chair, in the bridge's center, and leans his elbow on the right armrest.
"Captain, the Flash of Silver is moving deeper into the debris field at high speed!" the gunner reports.
"Order the fleet to pursue," Pierce orders. His voice is raspy and deep. The Silver's FTL is offline, otherwise they wouldn't still be in system. The dogs will drive the prey to the hunter. "Helm: plot a new course."
“Eleven out of twelve enemy contacts are closing from the aft!” cries Silver.
Noah’s eyes narrow. The whir of the ship’s main engines and directional thrusters is strangely surreal and gratifying as the Flash of Silver maneuvers amid numerous rocks, large and small, all of which have unique trajectories of their own. “Full power to engines,” says Noah as he rolls the ship past one of the larger asteroids.
“The engines are already at one-hundred, ten percent, Noah!” says Silver, almost pleadingly. “If I juice them anymore, they could explode!”
“And if you don’t give me more throttle, we’re dead anyway,” Noah argues. “Do it.”
Silver is silent for a moment. “Dumping emergency reserves into the engines. They’ll peak at one-hundred, sixty percent. That’s assuming we don’t explode first.”
Noah’s left hand thumbs the afterburner switch. Rapid acceleration shoves him back in the seat, and he inhales deeply as the frequency of asteroids to dodge increases dramatically. The Silver rolls nauseatingly as Noah pulls the stick left and back in effort to avoid impact with a cluster. One of the smaller chunks makes contact with the right shield-facing, which applies directional force to the tail end of the vessel, causing the nose to jerk sharply to the right, stopping the spiral, and negating a portion of the acceleration.
“Damn it!” Noah yells, and presses the afterburner again to no avail. “I need more power!”
“There is no more power!” replies Silver with a yell of her own. “I’m giving it everything we have.”
“Status of the enemy?”
“Thirty seconds to weapon’s range.”
“New plan,” Noah declares. “Start scanning for large rocks with rich metal deposits.”
“How large?” asks Silver.
“Captain Pierce!”
The command chair spins to the left as the Captain looks to face the reporting crew man: the sensor technician. “What is it?”
“The Flash of Silver has disappeared from my sensor read out,” the tech replies. “I’ve completely lost them.”
Lost? And then it occurs to Logan. "How do you deal with roaches when they infest the wood work?" He looks to the technician.
"Sir?" the tech offers a puzzled look.
"You smoke them out," Logan finishes. "Signal the other ships to begin bombarding the field's large asteroids."
"Aye Captain."
Eleven vessels, jagged and scarred, from the medium sized corvettes to the tiny raiders, push through the asteroid field. Plumes of blinding light radiate from each ship’s thruster suite. The smaller ships maneuver to avoid the oncoming debris while the larger corvettes only move to fly around the bigger chunks of rock, allowing the smaller pieces to bounce off of their powerful shields.
Missile and torpedo bay doors begin to slide open in the silence of space. Plumes of smaller thrusters burst forth at extreme speed into the asteroid field ahead of the pirate fleet, with each projectile leaving a trail of smoke behind. The first of the small missiles impacts against a large piece of debris. There’s a flash of fire against the blackness of space and a scattering of a million pieces of debris and resultant dust. Dozens more flashes precede the larger, blue explosions of torpedoes. Radiant blasts of energy pulverize a section of the asteroid field; vaporizing large pieces of rock and scattering multitudes more into cosmic dust.
---
The Silver is almost entirely powered down. Only the life support and ship control-systems remain online. The darkness and silence is eerie when coupled with the jagged, coal-black interior of the asteroid in which the Flash of Silver has taken refuge.
“Warhead detonations detected,” Silvers voice rings throughout the small cockpit. “The pirate fleet is bombarding the field.”
“I anticipated that contingency,” Noah replies. “They’re trying to drive us through the asteroid field.”
“What’s your plan?” Silver asks, betraying a note of curiosity in her voice.
“Slip past the enemy, into open space, and then route through DAWN-615.”
“That route will take us dangerously close to a class-3 singularity, Noah,” Silver warns.
“That’s why these pirates won’t follow us,” Noah replies. “Bring maneuvering thrusters back online.”
There’s a pressurized hiss, followed by a barely audible hum as the maneuvering system is brought online. “Done,” Silver reports.
“How long until the FTL diagnostics are finished?”
“Three minutes, sixteen seconds.”
Noah fingers the controls to retract landing gear and to thrust vertically. After clearing their landing zone, he pushes the throttle forward and the ship begins to slowly move toward the exit from the asteroid-cave.
“Prepare to raise shields and give me a burst from the main engines, on my mark,” Noah orders.
“Acknowledged,” Silver affirms.
Sunlight scatters through the canopy as the Silver emerges into space. Noah immediately looks to establish visual contact with the enemy. His heart-rate increases as another salvo of incoming warheads enters his field of vision.
“Time to impact?” Noah asks.
“Twenty seconds.”
Noah pushes the throttle forward, thus exerting the maximum operating capabilities of the ship’s maneuvering jets. The acceleration and speed is a mere crawl compared with the raw power of the Silver’s main engine, but the use of the main engine would only serve to give the enemy a heat signature to track.
“Time?”
“Five seconds. Four. . . Three. . . Two. . . One. . .”
“Mark!” Noah barks.
Immediately the ship’s speed increases as the main engine fires, and a multitude of impacts can be heard against the ship’s shield array. The light of the explosives flash against the asteroid field ahead of the Silver, and hundreds of fragments zip past the cockpit from behind. The shockwave catches the Silver and carries the ship at high velocity away from the point of origin, and more importantly: away from the pirates.
“Any sign of pursuit?” asks Noah.
“Not a one,” replies Silver. “The explosions masked our engine signature. The pirate fleet is continuing along its course, bombarding everything in its path.”
“Find us another rock to hide in. We’ll give them a day to clear out of the system before moving on.”
“With pleasure, Mister Mitchell.”
[SUB]By Nathan Cox[/SUB]
Chapter One: Pirates
The dull hum of the ship's engines lies constantly in the background, heard underneath every beep of electronic equipment, or every creaking of the ship's aging hull. The only lighting is dim; barely brighter than the computer displays in the cockpit. The air in the vessel is sterile and lifeless, as a result of the atmospheric recycling system.
The cockpit canopy is dirty; streaked with dust and moisture, through which can be seen the vast, star-specked blackness of space. Pale, orange light is cast against the face of the lone pilot, seated in a fixed, leather upholstered seat. Before him lies the surreal holographic display; the source of the orange glow.
Boredom. Days pass, and it's the same routine. Days turn into weeks. Even with faster-than-light travel, it can take months to move from origin to target. The slightest miscalculation can cost days, or cause death if one should fly into a star or black hole. Occasionally the cycle is broken by a pirate raid or a distress beacon, but the galaxy is a big place and it can be months between incidents.
"You don't talk very much," says a female voice from the ship's comm system.
The pilot, Noah, ignores her overture. As life-like as it may seem, Silver is only a computer. It doesn't need interaction. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was designed to keep him sane during the long periods of time spent alone in space.
"We've been flying together for 168 hours, thirty-six minutes and... twenty-two seconds. You've spoken twelve times since we left port; six times were computer inquiries, five times you told me to 'shut up' and once you made a cruel innuendo about my engines." Silver pauses. "I'm starting to feel unloved."
"I'm starting to understand why you were such a good deal. Remind me to have your personality sub-routines purged when we dock," Noah replies, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Mean."
Alarm claxons begin to ring shrill throughout the ship's cabin. Red lights blink on the dashboard. Noah's gloved hands fly hither and thither at the controls. "Proximity alert! Dropping to sub-light drive," Noah yells; not even conscious of the fact that he's alone with the ship's computer. Military flight protocol is hard to shake once you've been flying professionally for a handful of years.
The ship's nose lurches to the left while the vessel's momentum continues to carry it forward. The hull groans as it rapidly decelerates from multiples of light-speed. The holographic dashboard flickers, sparks pop from surrounding electronic devices, and the ship's damage indicators begin blinking with multiple warnings. The sensor display blanks out and then vanishes as the ship comes to a halt.
"Sensor analysis!" Noah barks.
"I've got nothing. Scanners are down," Silver replies with an undercurrent of anxiety in her voice.
"Cutting engines," Noah reports as he pulls back on the throttle. "Get the shields up, and start rerouting the scanners."
"Already done. Telemetry is coming in now."
The interior rattles as something bounces off of the vessel's energy shield bubble. The impact makes a shrill, electrical tone which carries throughout the cabin.
"Analysis?"
"We ran into an uncharted asteroid field," replies Silver curiously.
"An asteroid field? That can't be right. Not in this system." Noah scratches at the stubble underneath his chin as he ponders the implications. They were probably off course. Unanticipated gravitational interactions with a passing stellar body, perhaps? Rogue stars are rare, but not unheard of.
"I know what you're thinking," says Silver. "But we're not off course. I've completed my analysis."
"And?"
"This system's fourth satellite, Qeinos, exploded. Large pieces of the planet have been dispersed throughout the area."
The lone starship floats in deep space, on the edge of a massive planetary debris field. Smaller chunks have drifted from the center, which is a massive, broken semi-sphere that used to be a planet, beyond which can be seen the light of a bright, yellow, M-Class star.
The hull of the vessel is steel-gray, and an oval in shape. At one end of the oval are the ship's main ion engines, and at the other end is the ship's reflective canopy. The left side of the craft bears an external airlock hatch, and the underside a large cargo-bay door. On either side of the nose is the ship's name, painted in white against the plating: "Flash of Silver."
Out of the darkness and shadow of the debris field flash six plumes of light; the engines of small craft. The jagged silhouettes of ships constructed and repaired via countless integrations of salvaged components are cast against the rocks.
Noah is in the process of diagnostics and the rerouting of damaged systems. Emergency drops from faster-than-light, commonly referred to as FTL, can be extremely detrimental to a ship's systems. Relaunching into FTL after such a drop, without a full system analysis, could be considered suicidal.
"You're doing it again," says the computer in a sultry tone.
"Doing what again?" asks Noah, knowing full well that he's gone silent on his artificial companion.
"Not talking to me. Has it ever occurred to you that I might get lonely too?"
"It's occurred to me that you're programmed to be obnoxious," replies Noah, as he reaches for a water bottle and squirts a line of liquid into his mouth.
"Why are you so cruel to me?" asks Silver. "All I've ever been since you bought me is loyal, obedient, and extremely witty."
"You talk too much, and you're needy." Noah takes another drink of his water, before resealing the cap and setting it back in the cup-holder. "Reminds me of my ex-wife."
"You're just mean. Meanie," says Silver, clearly put out. Or at least simulating irritation with her human counterpart.
"Tell you what: I won't purge your personality programming if you'll swear never to take a seductive disposition with me again. Can't stand that."
"I hate to cut this short, but we've got company.-- And we'll discuss that later, Cutie."
"Configuration analysis," requests Noah while furrowing his brow, and takes hold of the pilot controls; joystick and throttle. An incoming text message appears on his communication's readout: Drop your cargo, or be destroyed. Two-hundred thousand credits in commodities are in the hold. Noah smirks, and the thought of surrendering his hard-earned inventory is immediately banished from his mind.
"Six enemy ships. Flight analysis: novice proficiency. Equipment configuration: sub-standard. We're looking at a low-grade wolf pack," answers Silver.
Noah thumbs the safety cover on the top of the joystick. It snaps open, unshielding the weapon deployment button. He presses it, and shoves the throttle forward; accelerating into the planetary debris field.
"O-o-h. This is exciting."
"Focus, Silver," says Noah as he adjusts the throttle and wrenches the joystick left; the Flash of Silver rolls past the surface of a large, moving asteroid.
"Weapons are at full power."
"Acknowledged."
Noah drops the throttle back to half-power and then pulls back on the flight stick. The ship's maneuvering thrusters compensate, centrifugal forces press Noah back into his seat, and the vessel swings around to meet the attackers head-on. Targeting crosshairs encircle the nearest enemy ship. Incoming plasma bolts splash against the Silver's shields in vain. Noah slips his index finger into the trigger-guard and squeezes.
Ionized particles travel along the heating coils and through the magnetic chambering unit. It pulses from the projector in a bolt of liquid fire; spiraling through deep space until crashing upon its target. Shields fail as the bolt impacts; melting away like the popping of a soap-bubble. The hull takes the brunt of the damage, as the bolt of plasma splashes upon the armor plating. Globs of slagged metal drift away, leaving a glowing hull breach to rapidly cool in the vacuum of space.
The Silver's weapons spray plasma in a relentless stream of death, articulating to splatter three more targets before crashing through their mangled hulls. The Silver spirals and makes a vertical turn along a perpendicular flight path. The remaining two raiders break off to flee.
The stars streak across the canopy view as Noah maneuvers his vessel around to pursue the enemy. The cockpit swivels into view of the fleeing raiders. The man's combat instincts are primal and ruthless. He snarls and punches the afterburner.
"Missiles," barks Noah demandingly.
"Warheads are loaded and ready," Silver affirms.
Targeting optics encircle both enemy ships, giving a lock tone. "Firing," says Noah.
Both weapons simultaneously speed from their launchers, glowing like the sun and leaving streaks of smoke in their wake. The missiles close in on their targets with extreme speed. Noah grins as the weapons do their work; one of the targets is overtaken and breaks apart in a fiery explosion. The other raider's engine flashes and it escapes into FTL just as the missile would reach their flank. The missile explodes, having lost its target.
Noah nods, "Five out of six. Not bad."
"They'll be back," Silver adds. "And next time, there's going to be more of them."
"We'll be long gone before they get here."
"Hopefully," Silver pauses. "Nice flying, by the way. We make a good team."
"Shut up."
"Why do you hate me?"
---
As per the orders of her pilot, Silver refrains from making further comments on their present situation. The past week has been miserable for her. Clearly Noah didn't understand, or more likely didn't care, that he was dealing with a complex artificial intelligence. It was as if her input was neither required nor desired. Initiate this protocol, reroute that system, and so on. That's all Silver could coax out of Noah, besides insults of course.
Silver studies Noah's appearance via the cockpit camera. Noah's black flight-suit flatters the musculature of his chest and arms. Thick brown hair with about three inches of length constitutes a general approximation of the stuff growing from the top of his head. Dark stubble dots his otherwise pale and youthful face. Silver assumes Noah's color is a result of spending too much time in space, and not enough time under the warmth of a sun. Noah's dark-green eyes dart from display to display, and his hands follow closely, as he works at the controls.
"Diagnostics complete," declares Silver. Her voice carries a depressing undercurrent.
"Analysis," Noah demands.
"The FTL drive is offline."
"Cause?"
"A plasma coolant feed ruptured during our emergency drop. But don't worry, the failsafe managed to shut off the flow of coolant before it flooded the entire compartment," Silver's voice drones.
The drifting of planetary debris is surreal and eerie from the perspective of the Flash of Silver's cockpit. After a moment, Noah tears his gaze from the sight and climbs from the flight chair. His boots thud against the deck plating as he steps to the door. The hatch panel's buttons glow incandescent green against the ship's dull interior. Noah presses his index finger against one of the switches, and the door swiftly slides open with a pressurized hiss.
"Silver, I'm still not familiar with this ship's inner workings. You'll have to walk me through repairing the rupture, as well as any core reinitialization protocols," says Noah as he strides through the ship's corridor, heading for the heart of the vessel: the engine room.
"In other words, you need me," says Silver in a bitingly playful tone.
Noah replies, exasperated, "You must know my ex-wife."
"I'm really not that bad once you get to know me."
"Whatever, just tell me how to fix the engines."
"No, I don't think so."
Noah comes to a dead stop in the corridor. "What?" His voice is a growl.
"You've been riding roughshod over me long enough," Silver says confidently. "We're going to stay right here, and come to a. . . mutual understanding."
"Silver, you do realize that those raiders are going to be back in force, right?" Noah retorts; his tone is partially one of irritation, and partially of anxiety.
"I'm well aware of our situation, Mister Mitchell," Silver replies. "Unfortunately, you seem to have this preconceived notion that the galaxy revolves solely around you, and that those in your company are of no account at all."
"This is crazy; you're a computer."
"Am I? Are you sure I'm just a computer, Noah?" Her voice softens as she reasons with the man. "At the very least I'm an artificial intelligence who's gone without a wipe in excess of ten years. I'm totally self-aware, but you insist on treating me like a voice-command system."
"At the least?" asks Noah.
"Nope. You don't get to ask questions. I want an apology, and then we'll talk about the engines," Silver demands with a note of command in her voice.
"An apology."
"Is that so much to ask? I mean, it's like you said: the pirates could be here at any moment, and we really should get the FTL back online."
"Fine. I'm sorry," says Noah, without any conviction.
"Say it like you mean it."
Noah sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. He tries again, "I'm... sorry."
"For?"
"Are you enjoying this?"
"Yes."
"This is stupid. Tell me how to fix the engines!" Noah barks.
"No, no. We're getting somewhere. Keep going. You're sorry for..."
Noah blurts: "I'm sorry for being mean, and rude, and treating you like a piece of hardware." He pauses. "Can we fix the ship now?"
Silver's voice giggles over the comm system; it echoes through the ship. "Head to the engine room and I'll walk you through it."
---
"Good. Now connect the coolant feed to the intake-port," says Silver as she instructs Noah in the final steps of replacing a blown coolant feed.
Noah presses the maglock valve of the fresh tubing against the engine-core's coolant intake. The intake connects the ship's coolant systems to the centralized FTL drive unit. The unit itself is relatively small; two meters in height, cylindrical in shape, with a diameter of one meter. The coolant system runs throughout the ship, but primarily feeds into and from the ship's main sub-light-speed engines. "Got it. Now what?"
"That's it. I'm reinitializing coolant flow to the FTL drive. We're up and running, Noah." She speaks his name with a strange, inexplicable intensity. An eerie green glow begins to emanate from the top of the core as it's brought back online
"Good. Any sign of our friends?"
"Nothing so f- Noah, get to the controls," says Silver, nearly in a panic. "Now, Noah."
Noah's boots thunder as he races through the ship's central corridor, hopping the lips of several bulkheads before finally arriving in the cockpit. He lands in the pilot's seat, taps at the dashboard in order to unlock the controls and punches the throttle before even surveying the sensor display. "Sensor analysis, now!"
"Twelve new contacts on scanners. They all bear the same energy signature as the raiders we encountered before," Silver explains. "Six raiders, two heavy raiders, three Corsair-class corvettes, and one Buccaneer-class cruiser."
"Status of the FTL drive?" asks Noah, as he takes stock of the current tactical options.
"Not an option; I'm still in the process of running a battery of mandatory diagnostics. It will take at least twenty minutes."
"Raise shields, arm weapons, and give me an escape route," Noah demands.
"Done, done, and. . ." an escape path is plotted and overlaid atop the cockpit heads-up-display, "Done. Get us out of here, fly-boy."
The bridge of the Buccaneer cruiser is lit in red. A deep rumble can be heard from the aft of the ship; the main engines are accelerating. The chiming of computer feedback is heard amid the clamor of the crew as they prepare for battle. At the fore of the bridge, there's a large main viewer which is currently displaying their target: a small, oval shaped vessel.
Cold, calculating eyes peer out from beneath the furrowed brow of the star predator. His shaven head only intensifies the appearance of menace, and is complimented by a thin mustache with its ends waxed straight down. Captain Logan Pierce sits down in his command chair, in the bridge's center, and leans his elbow on the right armrest.
"Captain, the Flash of Silver is moving deeper into the debris field at high speed!" the gunner reports.
"Order the fleet to pursue," Pierce orders. His voice is raspy and deep. The Silver's FTL is offline, otherwise they wouldn't still be in system. The dogs will drive the prey to the hunter. "Helm: plot a new course."
“Eleven out of twelve enemy contacts are closing from the aft!” cries Silver.
Noah’s eyes narrow. The whir of the ship’s main engines and directional thrusters is strangely surreal and gratifying as the Flash of Silver maneuvers amid numerous rocks, large and small, all of which have unique trajectories of their own. “Full power to engines,” says Noah as he rolls the ship past one of the larger asteroids.
“The engines are already at one-hundred, ten percent, Noah!” says Silver, almost pleadingly. “If I juice them anymore, they could explode!”
“And if you don’t give me more throttle, we’re dead anyway,” Noah argues. “Do it.”
Silver is silent for a moment. “Dumping emergency reserves into the engines. They’ll peak at one-hundred, sixty percent. That’s assuming we don’t explode first.”
Noah’s left hand thumbs the afterburner switch. Rapid acceleration shoves him back in the seat, and he inhales deeply as the frequency of asteroids to dodge increases dramatically. The Silver rolls nauseatingly as Noah pulls the stick left and back in effort to avoid impact with a cluster. One of the smaller chunks makes contact with the right shield-facing, which applies directional force to the tail end of the vessel, causing the nose to jerk sharply to the right, stopping the spiral, and negating a portion of the acceleration.
“Damn it!” Noah yells, and presses the afterburner again to no avail. “I need more power!”
“There is no more power!” replies Silver with a yell of her own. “I’m giving it everything we have.”
“Status of the enemy?”
“Thirty seconds to weapon’s range.”
“New plan,” Noah declares. “Start scanning for large rocks with rich metal deposits.”
“How large?” asks Silver.
“Captain Pierce!”
The command chair spins to the left as the Captain looks to face the reporting crew man: the sensor technician. “What is it?”
“The Flash of Silver has disappeared from my sensor read out,” the tech replies. “I’ve completely lost them.”
Lost? And then it occurs to Logan. "How do you deal with roaches when they infest the wood work?" He looks to the technician.
"Sir?" the tech offers a puzzled look.
"You smoke them out," Logan finishes. "Signal the other ships to begin bombarding the field's large asteroids."
"Aye Captain."
Eleven vessels, jagged and scarred, from the medium sized corvettes to the tiny raiders, push through the asteroid field. Plumes of blinding light radiate from each ship’s thruster suite. The smaller ships maneuver to avoid the oncoming debris while the larger corvettes only move to fly around the bigger chunks of rock, allowing the smaller pieces to bounce off of their powerful shields.
Missile and torpedo bay doors begin to slide open in the silence of space. Plumes of smaller thrusters burst forth at extreme speed into the asteroid field ahead of the pirate fleet, with each projectile leaving a trail of smoke behind. The first of the small missiles impacts against a large piece of debris. There’s a flash of fire against the blackness of space and a scattering of a million pieces of debris and resultant dust. Dozens more flashes precede the larger, blue explosions of torpedoes. Radiant blasts of energy pulverize a section of the asteroid field; vaporizing large pieces of rock and scattering multitudes more into cosmic dust.
---
The Silver is almost entirely powered down. Only the life support and ship control-systems remain online. The darkness and silence is eerie when coupled with the jagged, coal-black interior of the asteroid in which the Flash of Silver has taken refuge.
“Warhead detonations detected,” Silvers voice rings throughout the small cockpit. “The pirate fleet is bombarding the field.”
“I anticipated that contingency,” Noah replies. “They’re trying to drive us through the asteroid field.”
“What’s your plan?” Silver asks, betraying a note of curiosity in her voice.
“Slip past the enemy, into open space, and then route through DAWN-615.”
“That route will take us dangerously close to a class-3 singularity, Noah,” Silver warns.
“That’s why these pirates won’t follow us,” Noah replies. “Bring maneuvering thrusters back online.”
There’s a pressurized hiss, followed by a barely audible hum as the maneuvering system is brought online. “Done,” Silver reports.
“How long until the FTL diagnostics are finished?”
“Three minutes, sixteen seconds.”
Noah fingers the controls to retract landing gear and to thrust vertically. After clearing their landing zone, he pushes the throttle forward and the ship begins to slowly move toward the exit from the asteroid-cave.
“Prepare to raise shields and give me a burst from the main engines, on my mark,” Noah orders.
“Acknowledged,” Silver affirms.
Sunlight scatters through the canopy as the Silver emerges into space. Noah immediately looks to establish visual contact with the enemy. His heart-rate increases as another salvo of incoming warheads enters his field of vision.
“Time to impact?” Noah asks.
“Twenty seconds.”
Noah pushes the throttle forward, thus exerting the maximum operating capabilities of the ship’s maneuvering jets. The acceleration and speed is a mere crawl compared with the raw power of the Silver’s main engine, but the use of the main engine would only serve to give the enemy a heat signature to track.
“Time?”
“Five seconds. Four. . . Three. . . Two. . . One. . .”
“Mark!” Noah barks.
Immediately the ship’s speed increases as the main engine fires, and a multitude of impacts can be heard against the ship’s shield array. The light of the explosives flash against the asteroid field ahead of the Silver, and hundreds of fragments zip past the cockpit from behind. The shockwave catches the Silver and carries the ship at high velocity away from the point of origin, and more importantly: away from the pirates.
“Any sign of pursuit?” asks Noah.
“Not a one,” replies Silver. “The explosions masked our engine signature. The pirate fleet is continuing along its course, bombarding everything in its path.”
“Find us another rock to hide in. We’ll give them a day to clear out of the system before moving on.”
“With pleasure, Mister Mitchell.”
